CHAPTER 28 #2
“You think me too soft to wield the oars, just as you thought me too soft to spill blood? You stupid, stupid man—I spent a number of years exploring the wilds of Spanish America, and faced a myriad of dangers in the jungle that would make your hair stand on end. Trust me, I can fend for myself.”
Bracing his legs for balance in the rocking longboat, he calmly took aim at Lyman’s forehead.
“I’ll return your money!” Lyman’s arrogance had dissolved to a desperate wheedling. “I’ve a safe place where we can shelter from the authorities, and a network of smugglers who will get us out of the country.”
“The time to make a deal is past.”
Wrexford stared in shock as von Stockhausen pulled the trigger and Lyman’s skull exploded in a sickening spray of shattered bone and brains.
“I suppose I should feel a twinge of pity . . .” He thought about the British troops betrayed by Lyman and shook his head. “But if ever a man deserved an ugly death, it was him.”
“Amen to that,” said Tyler, his breathing a little ragged as he labored to keep the oilcloth-wrapped specimen afloat.
“Our friends will be here shortly,” said Wrexford. “I’ll stay with you if you’re tiring, but otherwise . . .”
A heavy splash indicated that von Stockhausen had worked the block and tackles to lower the longboat into the water.
“Otherwise, I’d like to make sure that our nemesis doesn’t escape.”
“Go!” gurgled the valet as a wave slapped his face. “I’m Scottish—a little cold and wet won’t do me a lick of harm.”
The oars thudded into the brass oarlocks. It appeared that the Prussian hadn’t lied about his survival skills. He maneuvered the boat around with practiced ease.
“I shall count on that,” replied Wrexford, keeping his eyes on von Stockhausen, who began rowing toward the south bank. “I would greatly miss your everyday insolence.” With that, he drew in a deep breath and submerged beneath the rippling waves.
The Prussian’s course was angling close to the floating fog in which they had taken cover. Propelling himself underwater with silent strokes, he passed the longboat and quickly pivoted and raised his head just enough to gauge the perfect moment to grasp the prow.
Wrexford heard a grunt from von Stockhausen as the drag of his own weight slowed the longboat’s momentum.
The currents in this part of the river were fitful, and he was counting on that to keep the enemy from becoming suspicious.
Sure enough, he heard a low oath as von Stockhausen redoubled his efforts.
All the better that the dastard was fatiguing himself.
Keeping a grip on the longboat’s front cleat, Wrexford took a moment to regain his breath.
His plan was a simple one—rowing required von Stockhausen to face the rear.
While the Prussian huffed and puffed over the oars, the earl intended to work his way down the railing until he was almost abreast of the center seat—and then to tip over the longboat with a sudden yank and spill von Stockhausen into the river.
In another few moments, Charlotte and Sheffield should swoop in and capture him as he flailed around in the water.
Hand over hand, Wrexford slid his way along the varnished railing. Closer . . . closer . . .
NOW!
The earl yanked himself upward with all his might.
But his movements were sluggish from the cold and his fingers slipped.
The boat rocked, but only enough to knock von Stockhausen from his seat.
As Wrexford fell back into the water, he saw the Prussian scramble to his feet, snatch up one of the heavy oars, and lift it high over his head with a bellow of rage.
Damnation. There was no time to swim out of range. His only hope of avoiding a lethal blow was to dive—
Crack!
The oar fell harmlessly against the gunwales as von Stockhausen teetered for an instant before dropping like a stack of stones over the stern and disappearing beneath the water.
Wrexford blinked the brackish spray out of his eyes and looked up to see the wherry bearing down on him. McClellan was balanced on the bowsprit, one hand clutching a shroud, the other a still-smoking pistol.
Behind her were Charlotte and Sheffield, who were just lowering their own weapons.
“You should have let me shoot him,” said Sheffield.
“No, better me than any of you,” said the maid cryptically.
The earl was about to speak, but then all of a sudden, hands were reaching down and hauling him up into the blessedly dry cockpit.
“T-Tyler,” he sputtered as Charlotte draped him in a blanket.
“Yes, yes, we saw him.” Sheffield rushed to take the tiller from Raven. “We’ll have him safely aboard in a moment.”
“You bloody idiot,” said Charlotte before wrapping the earl in a hug and kissing him full on the mouth.
Wrexford couldn’t recall having ever tasted anything so exquisitely sweet.
“What the devil were you thinking?” she murmured, her lips now feathering against his cheek. “That madman had just shot two men. How could you be sure he didn’t have a third weapon?”
“Nobody carries three pistols,” he answered. “It defies logic—two hands, two pistols.”
“Be damned with logic.” She hugged him tighter. “Don’t ever attack a ruthless murderer with naught but your bare hands again.”
Raven peered over one of the crates, his look of concern giving way to a grin. “Oiy, you’re supposed to be setting a good example for me and Hawk.”
“Ahoy there,” warned Sheffield, slowing the wherry as it approached Tyler.
McClellan leaned over the rail and lifted her cousin and his bedraggled sack into the boat.
“Are you injured?” she demanded after clasping him in a fierce embrace.
Tyler smiled. “Just a few scrapes and bumps.”
“Good.” The maid cocked a meaty fist and smacked him square on the tip of his chin, knocking him out cold. “Let that be a lesson not to draw the Weasels into danger in the future.”
She caught him as he slumped forward and quickly wrapped him in a blanket before laying him gently on the cockpit floor, sheltered from the wind.
“Now, I suggest we all return to His Lordship’s townhouse as quickly as can be arranged .
. .” She cracked her knuckles. “And break open a bottle of his most expensive Scottish malt.”